Clara
Ethan's message arrived just after four in the afternoon, three days after the gala, three days of silence that had already begun eroding whatever certainty I'd carried out of that library with me.
We need to talk. Can you come to my office after hours, once the floor clears.
I arrived at seven, the executive floor quiet around me, and found him standing at his window rather than seated behind his desk, the same posture he'd worn during difficult conversations before, a stance that told me, before he'd said a single word, that whatever this conversation held wasn't going to be easy.
"You've been avoiding me," I said, closing the door behind me.
"I have." He turned to face me, and I saw immediately the exhaustion carved into his expression, something considerably heavier than the
